Midnight Hours
by GarGoyl
Summary: Modern AU. Upon getting a transfer from Paris to New York, police detective Francis Bonnefoy is partnered with a brilliant but fairly odd Englishman, who instantly annoys, confuses and enchants him. But detective Arthur Kirkland is a man with a dark secret and soon to be something else too… Crime, magic, FRUK smut and the occasional load of crack. I don't own Hetalia.
1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER 1**

**A/N – Hey! So, I just had this new FRUK plot popping into my mind all the sudden so I had to write it. Hope you guys enjoy my latest sinister creation and as you may already know, I have a reason for calling them like that…so here it is! Also, there is a bit of explaining at the end. **

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><p>"Why don't you want to use a safe word?" the young man asked, holding his head in his hand and looking rather bored.<p>

The green-eyed blond sprawled onto the bed was still panting slightly, staring at the ceiling. The bonds were beginning to put a strain on his shoulders and he really wished he didn't have to have his wrists tied up like this, but then again he knew he wasn't strong enough not to struggle through the procedure. It was simply _too intense_.

"Because it's… ridiculous!" he said at last, tongue darting out to lick the chapped lips. "It's not like I'm doing this for pleasure, and besides, it's… oh, bollocks, it's no use, untie me."

The brunette girl leaned over quickly, severing the silk ribbons holding the Englishman's wrists captive with a small knife. Arthur sat up with some effort, still breathing hard as he pulled his unbuttoned shirt together, and buried his face in his hands. He had seen nothing, nothing! Could it have been that _the gift_ was simply going to shit?

"Do you not understand? If I were to have a safe word – ignoring how bloody_ BDSM_ that sounds – the restraints would be useless! Because I would just use the safe word when it becomes too much and then I would never get to see anything!" he grumbled. "I can only see things when I'm pushed over the limit!"

He fell backwards on the bed as the boy moved to hover over him, having Arthur relax against the mattress, his head resting in the other sibling's lap.

"Whatever you say, young master… You know, our other _clients_ don't have visions when we do this to them, they just feel good, or at least they think they do… ," the girl said, running long fingers through his unruly blonde bangs.

"Yep," her brother confirmed, "You're the only one doing it for your job. And if it's so terrible, why don't you quit that shit job anyway? You could always decide to become some psycho-poo-poo who tells people weird New Age stuff for a lot of money."

"You know why. It's the curse of all the men in the Kirkland family – we must take honorable jobs in service of the State and for the good of the society. Or else my pirate great-great-grandfather's ghost will come to haunt me because I'm not spending _my_ life atoning for _his_ sins."

"Arthur…"

"He _is real_! That time I made that fuss and got suspended he showed up at my bedroom door. Do you have any idea how bloody horrible that was?!"

The brunette had lit up a cherry-flavored cigarette and she took a long, lazy drag before settling it between Arthur's lips. "And? What did he do? Or say?"

"Nothing. He was just standing there, with chains wrapped around his neck and the rest of his body, water dripping off his clothes, staring at me. The sodding carpet was soaked in the morning, and there were seaweeds on it!"

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><p>Francis was excited. He'd been worried a bit at first, because it was a big change, but now it had all turned to excitement. There was a small smile on his lips as he walked into the new headquarters of his assigned police station, briefly smoothing the lapels of his jacket as he went. His glance swept curiously over the buzzing open space and the people at the desks, receiving a few curious glances from those still nursing their morning coffees, but no one bothered to ask him anything or say hello.<p>

He'd been given his badge at the front desk after delivering his transfer documentation and the blond kept rubbing his thumb over the smooth steel now nested safely in his pocket as he walked towards the matted glass door which read 'Chief Inspector'. It was open, yet Francis knocked a couple of times politely before poking his head in. His eyes fell on a large, neatly arranged desk with a small plaque sitting on one end.

_Alfred F. Jones._

So, Mr. Jones it was, he mentally repeated. A blond man, rather on the petite side and donning a pale blue uniform was standing with his back on the door, rummaging through some drawers.

"Bon jou-… Tch! Um… Hello?"

The man turned abruptly but gracefully, emerald eyes giving the Frenchman an once-over before he blinked, expectant. "Yes?"

"Mr. Jones? It's great to finally meet you, honestly I-"

Francis had taken a step forward, hand extended, but halfway through the sentence he got the feeling, upon reading the slight confusion on the other's face, that he'd made a goof. After all, the Chief Inspector would have worn a suit at work, not an officer uniform, so this little fellow most likely wasn't him. _Merde!_

"Feliks Lukasiewicz, nice to meet you too," the smaller blond replied eventually, reaching out in turn and offering a soft handshake. "Boss is like totally not here now, but I take it you're the new detective, yes?" He hurriedly leafed through the stack of papers in his arms in search of something, then looked up relieved. "Detective Bonnefoy, right?"

"That's right."

"Boss won't be showing until later today, but I'm supposed to help you settle in," Feliks said, motioning for the newcomer to follow him out of the office. "I am his secretary and he totally trusts me to handle this. So, it must be quite the big change to move from Paris to the States, huh? Although I heard that like many people signed up for the exchange programme…"

Francis struggled to keep up with the secretary's rant and quick stride, getting slightly confused by the information overload (apparently Feliks knew _everything_ about _everyone _and it was somehow part of his first day orientation to get to know it as well), until they arrived in front of a remote office with no inscription on the door.

Feliks opened it cordially, revealing a simple interior, some dusty shelves and two opposing seats placed on each side of a joint desk laden with an absolute mess of papers and files. An ugly sweater vest lay on the backrest of one of the chairs, while in one corner of said desk sat a rather expensive looking laptop, sporting a 'painful' crack in the lid.

"So, like, this is your new office, detective Bonnefoy," the officer stated, clapping his hands together. "I totally hope you like it and you'll be sharing it with your new partner. I'll see right away that you get a computer of your own, but for now there's only the one over there... and detective Kirkland trashed it last week."

"I see..." The blue-eyed blond moved into the room, still looking around although there wasn't much to see (more like damage to be assessed) and tried to lift the window – some fresh air would have been nice for a change. It didn't budge. "Anyway, Feliks," Francis turned away from the troublesome window, having decided to insist upon it later, "I was wondering if you could tell me a few things about my partner, detective... Kirk-land, was it?" Since the man had not been mentioned before, he mentally noted.

Officer Lukasiewicz scratched his head, as if pondering where to start. "Well, he's like totally weird, but in the same time everyone agrees that he's the best investigator we have. He's also like, a total drunkard and God-knows-what-else, so…" the smaller blond paused and walked to the desk on the ugly sweater vest side and fished something from the top drawer. "Here!"

A key was presented to Francis while the other shrugged, as if this was the most natural thing in the world. "Detective, I know you're eager to work on your first case here with us, but currently it's Monday morning, 9:30, so your partner is probably at home, hangover or passed out under a pile of stuff, so you'll like totally have to dig him up and drag him here before anything else. I'll write down the address right away."

At first, the Frenchman though that since his English wasn't perfect he'd somehow misunderstood the task at hand, but after it was patiently repeated by Chief Inspector Jones's secretary the information finally sunk in and he found himself wondering if this wasn't some sort of joke his new colleagues had planned for his first day.

"Oh, and boss says that probably this will, like, become a regular job on work days, so keep the key."

"_Mais_... you can't expect me to break into the home of a man I've never met and... drag him out of bed or something!"

"There is, like totally no problem, that's why boss made him leave a key here," Feliks replied, sighing. "Just show him the badge and tell him who you are, I'm sure he won't mind."

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><p>Somehow, Francis was less than convinced that there would be 'like totally no problem' with that, as he was left alone in the unsightly office, absently weighing the key in his hand. His gaze fell on the abandoned sweater vest and he couldn't help imagining the kind of man who would be wearing that – middle-aged, skinny and bony, with clouded eyes, greasy hair and reeking of alcohol and cigarettes. He knew full well the type of 'genius' he'd been handed over to, the kind requiring a lot of pampering and attending to in exchange for regular loads of 'constructive criticism'. At the thought, his enthusiasm dwindled significantly, but well, it was going to be a new experience, after all.<p>

Or maybe this was a joke, or some sort of test Chief Inspector Jones had devised, maybe they'd even planted the depressing clothing article on the seat on purpose. With that bit of hope, the blue-eyed young man made his way out, ignoring the more than few curious stares which hadn't been there before and the barely restrained amusement behind officer Lukasiewicz's smile.

The cab left Francis in front of a decent brownstone house and he looked around curiously, immediately noticing a fancy black Mercedes Coupe parked awkwardly on the side of the street, after having hit several trashcans. _Dieu_, was this a tell-tale sign of his new partner's character? Most windows were covered by aging wooden shutters painted in a dark brown, appearing rather ominous and hostile at a first sight and the door too looked massive and unfriendly. Oh, well...

The blond sighed and fumbled with the key in the lock, eventually letting himself in after no one had answered the doorbell in the past five minutes (Feliks had told him it would surely be a waste of time, but he'd meant to do the right thing anyway). The parlor was dark, but it opened into large drawing rooms on each side a bit further away, the space nevertheless cramped with heavy, ancient looking furniture and looking utterly deserted. Given that the man was apparently British, Francis suddenly found himself thinking, after a brief inspection, that the inside of the house looked like a Victorian mansion.

A _haunted_ Victorian mansion.

**A/N – I know the first part is confusing as hell, but I kept it that way for a reason which will be revealed later on. Also, the story will for the most part be written from Francis' point of view (which is entirely new to me, by the way, but I'm willing to give it a try). Anyway, I know the first chapter isn't much, but I promise there will be plenty of action (of all kinds ;)) as well as some serious magic because let's face it, life without the flying mint bunny is bloody meaningless… just kidding, no flying mint bunnies. So maybe let me know what you think, because I love reviews as much as goblins love gold and they're a great motivational factor ;)**


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER 2**

**A/N – Hello everyone! I must say that I was SO happy with all the unexpected reviews, favs and follows for the first chapter, it totally makes my day to see my stuff is appreciated! So a big thank you to all of you wonderful people! Anyway, today I got a bit more free time than usual so here it is, an early update!**

_Sylvia – OC Transylvania_

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><p>Francis advanced cautiously out of the parlor and wandered into one of the drawing rooms, taking in his surroundings. Faint light filtered in through the shutters, giving the place an eerie appearance. Surprisingly, in the middle of the ancient looking mess he was able to spot a plasma TV, but it was about the only trace of modern inhabitation. Weird as hell, at any rate!<p>

Nervously tugging at his low pony tail, the young detective turned around, intend on heading for the stairs, but instead stumbled backwards, barely fighting back a yelp. A brunette girl wearing a black lace Goth maid uniform was standing in the doorway, observing him blankly.

"May I help you, sir?"

"Whoa, _m-mademoiselle_, I didn't see you there!" One of his hands shot towards his pocket and pulled out the badge, holding his other up. "I'm with the police, see? You've nothing to be afraid of, I was just looking for Mr. Kirkland," he explained hurriedly.

Not that the creepy maid looked awfully scared. She shrugged indifferently. "Check upstairs, I haven't gotten there yet," she said, motioning for the large garbage bag in her hand, which was already full, before walking away.

Francis decided to momentarily ignore the chill running down his spine after the peculiar encounter (for a fleeting moment he'd been under the impression that the girl's dark brown eyes had a reddish hue, striking against her somewhat unnatural pallor) and proceeded up the stairs.

He made his way through the first open door he stumbled upon, which happened to be a bedroom. More mess met him there – a stack of books and magazines which had apparently toppled over, discarded clothing, a pizza box, beer cans and various other stuff. A sudden movement amidst it startled the detective – who found himself tense enough as it was – and made him instinctively retreat into the adjacent bathroom through the open door.

Bad idea, because it turned out he'd actually barged in on someone – a blond-haired youth was sitting in the bathtub with his knees held to his chest and forehead resting against them, appearing to be dozing. Without his will the Frenchman was left staring, taking in what was visible of the naked form - cheeks slightly flushed from the warmth, damp short hairs sticking to the gracious nape of his neck, slender but still muscular arms and the few gleaming drops of watering lingering on the pale skin of his arched back.

"_Pas mauvais…_" he muttered under his breath.

"Sylvia?" the young man called suddenly, without lifting his head.

"Yes, young master?" came the voice from below. Apparently the creepy maid had extremely sharp hearing or something…

"Why is there a weird Frenchman in my bathroom?"

Francis gasped and pulled back, horribly embarrassed (but seriously, who bathed with their door open?) as the other looked up at last, green, cat-like eyes framed by thick eyebrows and choppy blonde bangs giving him a disdainful once-over. "Oh, pardon my intrusion! I… I was looking for your father," he stuttered, retreating back into the bedroom. "I am detective Francis Bonnefoy, I am his new partner, you know, at work…."

He stared again at the impressive pile of clothes at the foot of the bed, just as something fleetingly rubbed against his foot, and wondered if by any chance the old drunkard was passed out underneath it. Hard to say. How had Feliks put it? _'You'll like totally have to dig him up…' Merde, _he thought, leaning over the pile inquisitively.

"What are you doing?"

The young man was standing in the doorway now, wrapped in an oversized bathrobe, while the small white-and-brown Scottish fold cat in his arms was throwing Francis a hostile glare.

"Like I said, I'm looking for your fa-"

"_I_ am detective Kirkland, in case you were wondering. Arthur Kirkland," the smaller blond said bluntly, rolling his eyes. "And my father doesn't live here, good God…"

Francis's gaze traveled perplexed from the (quite attractive, he mentally noted again) young man standing in front of him to the brown tweed suit placed on a coat hanger on the wardrobe door, the sight of which was enough to make his stomach cringe. It must have been the ugliest suit in the fucking history of ugly suits.

"Again, my apologies. I just got into the office this morning and was given the key…"

"So you met Alfred F. Jones the Third, then," the Englishman deduced, putting the cat down and opening the wardrobe after tossing the suit out of the way.

"The Third? And no, actually his assistant showed me around and stuff," Francis replied, politely turning around and walking up to the open window to light up a cigarette. Only then it occurred to him that he should have stepped out of the room to give the other some privacy as he got dressed, but he'd been in shock and now it was too late. "But I guess that sounds imposing, 'the Third', _non_?"

"It sounds refurbished," Kirkland stated dryly.

The Frenchman scowled, adding 'insufferably British' to 'good looks wasted on terrible taste in clothing' in the mental notes he was making regarding his new work partner. Right then he noticed that outside a man in evening clothes was trying to pick the door of the black Mercedes Coupe. "Oi! You there!" he shouted, leaning over the sill, but the man ignored him.

"Hey, Bonnefoy, don't throw yourself off the window from the first day, alright? Not to mention this is only the first floor," the other pointed from behind him with a snort.

"Some guy in a tuxedo is trying to break into your car, _mon ami_," the blue-eyed blond retorted.

"That's my distinguished neighbor, Mr. Edelstein, and it's _his_ car. He must have dropped his keys in the sewer again. But seriously now, what sort of detective are you if you can't make a simple deduction? It should have _dawned_ on you that I can't possibly afford a Mercedes Coupe from a policeman salary…"

Francis blinked, struck in full by the offensive comment and forced to take a deep breath. "I genuinely didn't think someone could afford such a big house from a policeman salary either," he said, turning around and abandoning the sight of the dark-haired man who was now yelling something hysterically into his phone while kicking the front tyres.

Kirkland had thankfully finished getting dressed (_Dieu_, he was actually wearing that suit!) and mumbled something about his uncle having bought 'all this rubbish incredibly cheaply' as he walked out of the room. The blue-eyed blond could do nothing but shrug and follow, nearly tripping on the cat as it pushed past his feet in pursuit of its master. They descended downstairs and the Englishman took a detour through the kitchen to get something to eat, while Francis checked his watch and noticed it was _only_ 11:00…

"I believe you've already met Sylvia, my maid," the smaller blond said as he came back munching on a scone and brushing off crumbs and some cat hair off the lapels of his suit jacket, said girl in tow. "Well, I'll be going now, don't forget to brush Iggy," he instructed.

Right, a maid who called him 'young master', even if there wasn't any _other_ master in the house. Perverted too, then, Francis added to the list.

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><p>It turned out that Kirkland didn't own a car at all, so there was another cab drive, then going back to their shared office, during which time Francis had the opportunity to add even more things to his inner list regarding his new partner: disagreeable (he had suggested they help poor Mr. Edelstein with the car, but the Englishman had bluntly stated that the man was 'beyond help'), tight-fisted (he wouldn't leave the cab driver a tip) and extremely rude (he successfully insulted at least three people in the station on their way to the office). Such that it was almost a relief when the door of their cramped, dusty office was finally closed behind them.<p>

"So… this is it," the blue-eyed blond said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "What now?"

The other detective plopped down in his seat, swept the scattered papers from the desk aside into a big pile and pressed the start button on his laptop - which was surprisingly still functional - shrugging. "Jones will set us up with a new assignment, I heard," he muttered. "He'll probably show up as soon as the hamburger stand across the street opens and he gets his fix…"

Then Kirkland proceeded to ignore him, while Francis picked up some safety instructions from the table and pretended to read them as he waited. He couldn't help peeking from time to time though, because there was something about the Englishman he found intriguing, even if he was unable to put his finger on it. Maybe it had been that first sight, of the man's naked and quite delectable body (at least the bits he'd seen), or maybe there was something about his vibe… at any rate fully compensated by his thoroughly unpleasant character.

But then the smaller blond loosened his tie as he was staring at the screen, stretching his neck and raising his hand to rub it, biting his lip as he did and Francis quickly averted his gaze, hoping he hadn't been caught looking. There was an almost unnoticeable bruise looking suspiciously like a bite mark on the side of his neck just below the collar line and, as his shirt sleeve slid down, it turned out there was one on his wrist as well, appearing to be the result of a… binding of sorts. The Frenchman let his gaze wander around the room in desperate hope of a distraction of sorts to keep _certain_ thoughts and images from flooding his mind.

Fortunately for him – because his eyes kept returning to the newly found point of interest against his will – the door was slammed open and a bespectacled blond donning a dashing vintage bomber jacket over a pearly grey Zegna suit barged in, flashing a one million dollars smile.

"Bon'jour, yo!" he greeted loudly and effectively butchering the word with his accent. "Welcome, detective Bonnefoy! Chief Inspector Alfred F. Jones," he introduced himself, reaching out to shake Francis's hand.

"_The Third_…" Kirkland added as an afterthought, not bothering to look up.

"Ah well, detective," the Chief Inspector (who by the way seemed to be awfully young for the position) said gritting his teeth in annoyance oh-so-slightly, "I see you successfully managed to retrieve your new partner from whatever bottomless pit he'd fallen into this time… But don't worry, Artie's really not as bad as he seems, heh. He's far, far worse."

In reply Francis laughed lightly, deciding to take it as a joke. "Right… But no, it was great meeting you all! And officer Lukasiewicz told me a lot about everyone as well as helping me with the orientation, I felt very welcome indeed."

"Well, that's good to hear. Say, detective, are you all set already? Got a place to stay and everything?" the bespectacled blond asked all the sudden.

Francis shrugged, mustering a small smile. "_Non_, well I have a room at the hotel for now… I will have to look for something a bit more permanent… Didn't have the time yet, but don't worry-"

Jones nodded, thoughtful. "Well, why don't you move in with Artie? He's got plenty of space, a maid too," he offered, out of the blue. "You could share the expenses and also make sure he shows up and stuff, so as long as you're not allergic to cats, or to Brits, heh, sounds like a great idea, right?" he said, walking up behind said Brit and placing his hands on his shoulders.

The Frenchman blinked, dumbstruck at first, then struggling to figure out whether the Chief Inspector was joking, or he was an absolute idiot with no respect for people, or there was some sort of war going on between him and Kirkland and this was an (absolutely fucked up) way of getting back at the detective.

"_Mais_ I-I don't… _je pense que_… I mean to say I think…"

"Artie's okay with it, right Artie?"

Kirkland nodded once, thick eyebrows raised. "Absolutely. And I promise not to take too long before popping the question either," he said ironically. "I'm sure I have a diamond ring here somewhere…"

**Dictionary : Pas mauvais – Not Bad**

**A/N – I have to explain a little something – normally I don't introduce OCs in my stories unless it's for a very good reason and this time I chose Transylvania on purpose (you'll see why a bit later on). Also, I am a hardcore cat fan and England's Scottish fold is just too sweet. And yes, I do believe clothes are important to Francis! Anyway, let me know what you think or whether you have any questions I'd be able to answer (without major spoilers of course) because I love hearing from you and reviews inspire me like nothing else ;)**


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER 3**

**A/N – Hello everyone! Thanks so much for the feedback, it really means a lot to me hearing from you guys and I couldn't be happier that you actually like this absolute… **_**thing**_**. I was so pissed until now, because I wanted to post this update since yesterday morning, but the site wasn't working – I couldn't access my personal profile, answer or write PMs or post updates. GAAAAARGHHH! Anyway, without further ado, here's today's update!**

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><p><em>Victoria Mancham - Seychelles<em>

Francis didn't really have time to process the fact that he'd been just set up – whether he liked it or not - with a new and potentially troublesome (in more than one way) roommate, because the Chief Inspector had him hastily dragged outside the office while briefly explaining that there was another very important someone he had to meet next. Kirkland was unceremoniously left behind, not that he seemed to mind, and Jones led the way down the corridor, making some small talk about the quality of coffee available in the kitchenette.

He knocked briefly at a closed door, before opening it and revealing a dark office, very little light filtering in through the blinds.

"Yo, Ivan, dude, gotta let some light in here, this place kinda gives off a bad vibe," the Chief Inspector grumbled, advancing into the room and searching for the light switch. The flickering light bulb revealed a solid man sitting behind a large desk and typing something on a laptop. He looked up and his violet eyes blinked owlishly, assessing the newcomers curiously. Francis noted that he was wearing a woolen scarf, despite the warm weather, but he figured it must have been some sort of fashion-statement accessory, judging by the way it was carefully arranged around his neck.

"Chief detective Ivan Braginski," Jones said, motioning towards the man and the latter (apparently a Russian) finally stood up. "This is our latest addition, detective Francis Bonnefoy, just transferred from Paris."

The Frenchman nearly flinched as he was delivered a bone-crushing handshake along with a wide smile and some heavily accented greeting."It's a pleasure to meet you, sir," he replied.

They were invited to settle into the seats opposite the desk and the Chief Inspector informed him that from then onwards he and Kirkland would be working under Braginski's direct command, since as a result of current restructurings the Chief detective was to take up more assignments. The Russian gave him the impression of a meticulous man who took his job very seriously, but in the same time he was oddly soft-spoken for such a massive fellow people would have normally thought of as menacing.

"Well, Francis, I don't know how to put this so that it doesn't sound weird or anything, so I'll just say it plainly and I can only hope you have a very open mind, because it's kinda important in this case," Jones suddenly said, pulling the other from his previous observations. It sounded a tad ominous so he wondered what this was about.

"I have to openly ask you if you are devout or superstitious, da," Braginski intervened gently.

Francis shrugged, not really knowing the right answer to that. "_Non_, not superstitious, but I am somewhat devout, I think…"

"Actually, Francis – I can call you Francis, da? – we do not mean to be intrusive in regard to personal beliefs, but we are hoping that you'll be able to keep an open mind as to some of the cases we're investigating here on occasion," the Russian explained with a small smile. "Cases involving _magic_."

Magic? As in… voodoo doll crimes? Harry Potter fans gone haywire? Satan worshippers? Admittedly, whatever it was, it was certainly a handful to take in all the sudden. The Frenchman blinked, deep down still a bit disbelieving even if everything else about his new job that he'd thought to be a joke at first in fact had turned out not to be.

"Magic… right… Well, I… I can assure you that I'll try to keep an open mind about it if it's needed…" His gaze trailed from Braginski to the Chief Inspector somewhat hesitantly, but they both looked serious enough to leave no room for doubt. "But I must confess that I have no knowledge or experience in that department…"

"That's not a problem, Ivan here can get you covered on the basics," Jones intervened, "not like we're experts anyway. Besides, you'll have plenty of time for that, we don't have any such cases for the time being and we don't get them very often either," he reassured. "But I just wanted to get this over with from the beginning, you know, give you some time to process the stuff, can't have you like totally freak out when it actually happens."

Francis nodded. He supposed it was fair to at least be given a warning, at any rate this was probably going to be one hell of an experience.

"Also, there was something else Ivan and I wanted to talk to you about, in private. It's more like a… bit of a personal request. The thing is we would like you to keep an eye on Artie. We're slightly concerned that he might be using… a _stimulant_ of sorts to aid in his deduction process. It might sound weird but trust me, it's been done before. And we're not objecting per say, because he is yielding results, but obviously we care for what happens to people here so just to be on the safe side we would like to know if something is going and what, you know?"

The Frenchman flinched inwardly – it sure looked like the oddities were not over yet. "Stimulant…?" The blond cleared his throat, awkwardly, shifting in his seat. "Well, earlier today officer Lukasiewicz mentioned that he… that detective Kirkland is… has somewhat of a drinking habit?"

Braginski sighed. "That's what some people assume, however… What I mean to say is that I've seen my share of drunkards and they are _hardly_ ever sober. But Arthur, he's been seen in trance-like states on occasion, but he's never been anything but sober at work, or at least seems to recover from those states very quickly, which is highly unusual. So, while I'm sure he drinks every now and then, that's not the only thing, we suspect there might be more to it."

Francis took a deep breath, nodding, while inwardly he wrapped it up – it was 'officially' part of his new job description to babysit Arthur Kirkland and discreetly investigate what the apparently brilliant but quite troublesome Englishman was up to. It was going to be one hell of a challenge, luckily he rather enjoyed challenges.

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><p>He returned to the office a while later, with a stack of books on magic Braginski had kindly provided. Until something to do came up, he was supposed to study them. To his pleasant surprise, a new laptop had already been installed in front of his seat, along with a note with the password and settings, and most of the mess on the desk was gone. He noticed a young woman in a tight pencil skirt and stylish denim jacket leaning over Kirkland's shoulder as he was showing her something on the screen of his computer. Her luscious black hair was swept back in a simple pony tail and she had very little makeup – just a bit of peachy blush on her tanned cheeks and some cherry lip gloss. She was very pretty regardless and Francis felt a strange sting upon seeing her small hand resting casually on the other detective's shoulder.<p>

"Let me guess, Jones took you aside to tell you rubbish about me," the smaller blond said, looking up, the statement breaking his train of thought.

"_Non_, he introduced me to Chief detective Braginski and I was given some books on _magic_ to read," the blue-eyed man said, hoping his face wasn't betraying anything. "Do you… believe in this stuff?"

"I personally think it's a load of bollocks, but that's just me, what do I know?" Kirkland replied with a snort. "Anyway, meet our assigned intern, Victoria Mancham," he said, motioning to the young woman, who offered a wide smile. "Victoria, this is detective Francis Bonnefoy."

"Nice to meet you, detective," the intern said, reaching out boldly, but Francis caught her slight stuttering, noticing that she was younger than he'd thought initially. He hoped that Kirkland wasn't being a jerk with her too, because she appeared to be a really sweet girl.

"So what was it? I'm curious as to what he said to _you_," the Englishman insisted, after Victoria left taking some more papers with her."For example, he told Victoria that I'm screwing my underage maid, but probably he wouldn't expect that to have the same effect on you as it should have had on her, so it must have been something else."

Right, so admittedly Kirkland was observant, so Francis knew he would have to say _something_. "Um… he mentioned something along the lines of you having a difficult and unpredictable temper…"

The other detective bit his lower lip, secretly amused and suddenly appearing completely different than the grumpy, passive-aggressive demeanor from before. He was almost… cute and the Frenchman barely held back a smile as he eyed his new stack of books. Was a _stimulant_ of sorts causing him weird mood swings, by any chance? Interesting… Clearly, there were a lot of odd things about his new job, but he had a strange feeling that somehow it was all going to be worth it.

"Right, so the underage maid I'm screwing said that your room will be ready by Friday," Kirkland informed him dryly, checking his phone and scrolling down the screen.

It certainly was going to be a long first week.

**A/N – Hell yes, poor Francis might have gotten himself into much more 'excitement' than he was expecting and I'm not going to make things easy for him ;) Also, there is a very good reason why Arthur claims magic is supposedly 'bollocks', trust me. Anyway, this again wasn't much of a chapter, but I promise a 'sensitive' subject next time (or should I say sensitive kink?), so stay tuned and don't forget to let me know what you think, because reviews are my poison of choice ;) **


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER 4**

A/N – Hello everyone! As promised, this time I'm making up to you for the short and relatively uninteresting last chapter.

_**Important disclaimer**_ - Please be advised that this chapter will introduce a potentially sensitive topic – which I found in another fic and subsequently researched, having found it to have potential plot-wise – namely what is known as 'domestic discipline' (DD). DD is (in my view) a sensitive subject not because it's a kink as some may believe, but because it's actually not, apparently it represents a comprehensive and quite diverse rule-based lifestyle with active supporters (who I by no means wish to offend with my work) and currently is a controversial topic. If you want to know more, there are plenty of resources online to read up from. Also, bear in mind that while it is used for plot purposes in a negative and very possibly extreme context, as well as to create tension between the main characters and said characters will express their views on it based on their contextual understanding, this is not meant to express any of my personal opinions or to pass any sort of judgment. I felt the need to put this lengthy disclaimer here, but if you find yourself still offended by this, I'm sorry and… don't read!

* * *

><p>The French detective felt somewhat uneasy as he carried his trolley travel bag inside the grim-looking brownstone the following Saturday. It was around noon, because he'd thought he shouldn't inconvenience his host by showing up too early – he was sure that Kirkland slept in during weekends, all the more since he seemed to do the same on most work days as well.<p>

He'd let himself in using the key he'd gotten on his first day at the new job, as instructed, since in fact the Englishman hadn't even bothered to let him know whether he'd be home when he arrived. The maid was supposed to be though – she was also working on Saturdays for double the daily pay – and she would show him his room and everything.

Kirkland's Scottish fold – Iggy, if he remembered right - met him in the parlor and rubbed its fluffy tail against his leg, prompting to be picked up and petted. Well, at least _someone _in the household wasn't openly hostile, he thought stooping to collect the cat and treading his fingers through the soft fur, in the same time scrunching up his nose as an odd smell wafted from the kitchen.

"Arthur, please remember that you have a guest today, so let me make something edible for lunch-"

"Bollocks! This is perfectly fine!" came his partner's voice from said kitchen.

"This black smudge…"

"It's _curry_!"

"It's a weapon of mass destruction. "

Hurried steps resounded and the brunette girl he'd met before showed up, her sensual, plump red lips curled into a wide smile on her sheet-white face. She was donning a buttoned up black dress with a stark white apron over it, which added to the overall creepiness of her appearance. And no, there was no mistake this time – her eyes were _red, _a deep, profoundly disturbing shade of dark cherry.

"Hello, _mademoiselle_ Sylvia," he greeted in a shaky voice, clutching at the cat which was happily clawing at his lapels and secretly wondering whether by any chance Arthur Kirkland and his maid from Hell weren't actually planning to cook _him_ for lunch. Maybe Jones had not meant to say 'underage' when referring to her, probably he'd wanted to say _undead_.

"Hello, detective," she replied softly, still smiling, but before Francis could ponder further on the alluring-disturbing tone in which those two simple words had left her lips, Kirkland popped up behind her with a flustered expression, mumbling an unintelligible greeting in turn. He too was wearing an apron over his shirt, only it was clearly used (or misused, rather).

"Iggy seems to like you now," its master noticed, snorting lightly. "Fickle, like all women…"

"Oh, it's a 'she'?"

"Yes. Here, let me take this for you," Arthur offered uncharacteristically, grabbing the Frenchman's luggage and heading up the stairs.

Francis followed closely and somewhat hurriedly, because it would have been rude to lag behind and because he really didn't want to be left alone with the ghoul housekeeper any moment longer.

"Right, I'll be in the kitchen to see to lunch, let me know if you need anything, young master," the brunette said before wheeling around and thankfully disappearing from view.

The Englishman led the way to the door opposite his own, at the other end of the first floor hallway, while muttering something about needing to stop being so harshly criticized when he was really making an effort.

"Arthur… um… I don't mean to sound impolite, but your maid has… red eyes…" Francis stuttered unconvincingly – perhaps he should really have kept that little observation to himself instead of pointing it out like that, out of the blue.

The smaller blond turned and looked up at him with a curious expression for a brief moment, before shrugging. "So does Marilyn Manson," he replied dryly. "Or at least he had when I was in highschool…"

Right. Marilyn Manson.

* * *

><p>Francis noted for further reference than he probably shouldn't, at any given moment and under any circumstances, say that things couldn't get any weirder that that. Sky was the limit, apparently, but somehow, he was experiencing a sort of thrilling which wasn't entirely unpleasant. Definitely, he told himself upon observing the Englishman, beautiful but hideously dressed in some old dress pants and a creased white shirt under the square patterned apron.<p>

Kirkland opened the door, revealing a spacious bedroom similar to his own, clean and tidy (_un_-like his own) and equipped with an inviting king sized bed. The cat struggled a bit in his arms and the blue-eyed blond let it down, the Scottish fold darting into the room and jumping straight onto the fresh sheets.

"It looks very good, thank you!" he said, looking around in awe and noticing there was an adjacent bathroom as well. "It's… really spacious and comfortable." With the corner of his eye he thought he saw the other detective smile briefly - a wicked smirk which brought out dimples in his cheeks - but apparently it was just an impression.

"You're sure everything's to your taste? I suppose I could give you a blowjob if you want."

Francis froze, eyes widening. "_C-Comment_?" he stuttered, turning around slowly to look at the smaller blond, to his surprise being met with the usual blunt expression.

"I said I could give it a paint job if you want," Arthur said, fingering the slightly chipped wood of the door demonstratively. "What? I'm really good at it, done it on the bathroom door as well," he added innocently, eyebrows raised.

The Frenchman gulped, momentarily unable to shake off the mental image of Kirkland getting down on his knees in front of him and undoing his jeans zipper with those pearly-white teeth. And then… _non, non, merde_, he really couldn't think of that now, it was wrong, very wrong! But had he really misheard the other's words as a result of this highly inopportune crush? As opposed to Kirkland having a creepy-groundhogging flirting technique… (not that he would have awfully minded).

* * *

><p>The rest of the day (and the weekend) had passed rather uneventful – the maid had prepared a surprisingly delicious stew for lunch before leaving, after which Kirkland too had made himself scarce without giving any explanations. Francis had been thus left on his own for Saturday afternoon and evening, as well as for the most part of Sunday, with only the TV and Braginski's magic books as company.<p>

* * *

><p>It was Monday morning and Francis was still stuck with nothing useful to do than leaf through the magic stack and occasionally get worried at what he was reading, while Arthur was explaining to Victoria how to organize some documents on the internal server, when the Chief Detective Ivan Braginski walked into their office unexpectedly.<p>

"Looks like I have a job for you two, da," he announced neutrally, holding up a piece of paper. "Suspected murder. Here's the address and you'd better hurry, because I told the operational team you'd be on your way a.s.a.p," the Russian added, throwing some car keys in Francis's general direction.

"You're driving," Kirkland said as a matter-of-fact as soon as Braginski disappeared, picking his suit jacket from the back of his chair and throwing it on without bothering to adjust the collar.

The patrol Ford Crown which had been assigned to them had definitely seen better days, but the Frenchman figured it was fine for their purpose. And at least he was allowed to drive, which was somewhat of a relief – not because he didn't trust his partner's driving skills per say, but because it gave him some sense of control over what was going on. That being said, he decided to tease the other for a bit on the subject.

"You know, Arthur, Chief Inspector Jones did not make any comments about your driving," he said casually, keeping his eyes on the road.

The smaller blond snorted. "I bet, he usually finds juicier subjects to hammer people's reputation with. Regardless, don't get the wrong impression and assume that I actually care about what he says. But well, we must all tread carefully because his 'daddy' is a senator – in case you were wondering how he landed the job in the first place – and if we make him angry we're in for a shit storm…"

"Huh. I for one I am always faithful to the phrase 'There is an explanation for everything', and that explains it, _n'est ce pas_?"

"Indeed."

"I never got to ask… and maybe, if you don't want to answer, I won't mind, but… what happened to your previous partner? I mean, did he…?" Francis found that he didn't have the heart to fully ask 'did he die?'.

Kirkland gave him that curious look again, the one he'd had when the Frenchman had pointed out that his maid had red eyes. It was admittedly unsettling, even if he found himself almost mesmerized by those light green, catlike eyes which seemed to seek to see into his very soul. Hopefully not seek to _devour _his soul as well...

"He got married and retired from the police work, his wife decided it was too dangerous," the other detective said at last. "So you can say he died in a way, yes. Now he's got a job with some obscure private eye office."

The rest of the ride was silent and soon they arrived in a pleasant residential neighborhood, with cozy and unassuming wooden houses, small green lawns and children riding bicycles on the side-walk or playing ball in the well-kept yards. The only things out of place in this little picture-perfect universe were the two police cars and the ambulance parked in front of one of the houses and the tell-tale yellow tape on the open door.

Francis parked smoothly and they both stepped out of the car, a young officer waiting nearby walking up to meet them halfway to the house.

"_Bastardo_, what took you so long?! Do you have any idea what it's like to be stuck with that schmuck?!" the dark-haired man yelled in lieu of any other greeting, throwing the green-eyed blond an angry glare.

"Right… Lovino, this is detective Bonnefoy," the Englishman said with a resigned sigh. "What are we looking at?"

The Italian (Francis deduced from the man's accent) gave him a skeptical once-over while openly expressing his hope that the newcomer wasn't as idiotic as his partner.

"Right, so Mr. Briggs over there found his wife dead in their bedroom this morning upon returning from his night shift. There's no sign of break-in or aggression at a first sight, but the paramedics called us in because she suffocated and they say it isn't the kind of suffocation which just occurs on its own, whatever the fuck that means," he explained grumpily. "Also, they estimate that the approximate time of death was somewhere between 9 P.M and 10 P.M., which places it I think a little after her husband left for work last night."

"Or a little before," Francis stated, more to himself, as he scowled lightly.

"Let's go inside, shall we?"

* * *

><p>Harvey Briggs was slumped on the couch, looking devastated as he pressed a crumpled handkerchief to his nose. He was a tall, solid man around forty, who worked as a guard to a local bank branch, while Angelique, the supposed victim, had been still in her early twenties and a housewife. It turned out they'd only been married for four years.<p>

"Mr. Briggs, do you know anyone who might have had any reason to hurt your wife?" Kirkland asked bluntly, while his partner looked around the spotless living-room. Everything was neatly arranged, with an almost obsessive precision. For some reason, Francis had a gut feeling that something suspicious was going on, something hidden in plain sight.

"No, no one!" the husband sobbed in a raspy voice, "Angelique was truly an angel, she was so kind to everyone! I can't think of anyone who could have hurt her!" The man wiped his nose and paused when he noticed the English detective giving him a somewhat odd look. "And I _loved_ my wife, alright? We were having a happy, loving marriage!"

"Everyone says that," the blond grumbled, his tone bordering hostility, and Francis nearly had the mind to ask him to stop harassing the poor man.

For the moment it appeared as though Kirkland was done asking questions, but then Lovino returned unexpectedly from outside and whispered something in his ear, changing his mind.

"Mr. Briggs, the nice old lady next door says that your wife never went into town and in fact barely ever left the house without you. Would you mind explaining that?"

The Frenchman perked up at the news, curiously gauging the husband's reaction, but he was perfectly calm as he spoke.

"Like I said, detective, I loved my wife and I wanted her to be safe, that's all."

"Do you mean to say you were a jealous man, Mr. Briggs?" Francis cut in. After all, the late Angelique Briggs had been much younger than her spouse, so it wasn't an unreasonable assumption.

The man eyed him sternly."No, it was simply one of our rules."

* * *

><p>It turned out that Mr. Briggs and his wife had agreed upon having a so-called 'domestic discipline' marriage – a concept Francis wasn't familiar with and which struck him as odd to say the least – and there were an awful lot of rules Mrs. Briggs had to follow as part of the family life. Furthermore, when asked whether she would always stick to said rules, her husband didn't even bat an eyelash when telling the two detectives that he used to spank his wife for even the most minor of transgressions. Of course, everything was part of the arrangement they'd both agreed to when starting their life together.<p>

"I don't think he did anything to cause her death," the Frenchman said later on, as they were driving back to the station and Kirkland was sulking in the passenger seat while studying some papers Lovino's partner – officer Carriedo – had found in Mr. Briggs' nightstand. There were several printouts of articles and blog entries from various private forums and websites on the peculiar subject discussed earlier and Carriedo had also enclosed some notes of his own on the 'implements' he'd discovered in a cardboard box in the couple's wardrobe.

"I don't know… What the bloody hell is 'nonconsensual consent'?" the smaller blond asked, leafing through the pile in his lap.

"_Je ne sais pas_, but isn't that a contradiction in terms?"

Later on, in the office, while rummaging through Briggs's papers, Francis discovered an excerpt from the private blog of a certain therapist of sorts, as well as a number for appointments jotted in handwriting on the side of the printed text. The blog apparently belonged to a Dr. Vash Zwingli – provider of marital counseling and applied therapy.

"He said that they were having a happy, loving marriage, yet it seems they were seeing a couple therapy practitioner? Interesting," he observed, looking up at the Englishman who was currently checking some related website. "Maybe we should pay this gentleman a visit and ask him some questions."

"He's not going to tell us anything, as per the whole doctor-patient confidentiality bollocks, and even if he won't use that, he probably would never say anything to incriminate someone actively practicing this apparently quite controversial lifestyle."

"I know!" Victoria cut in excitedly. "The only way we can get 'inside' information is for us to set an appointment with this Dr. Zwingli and pretend we're a couple to be married soon and we want to adopt this practice into our future marriage. After all, an e-mail address for appointments appears on his blog as well…" Her voice faltered a bit at the end, as her gaze trailed from one detective to the other hesitantly. "'Us' as in… me and one of you, I guess."

Francis cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly."Um… _Mademoiselle_ Victoria, I believe that it might not be such a good idea…" he replied. "Seeing how this thing is… how it is."

"Bonnefoy is right," Kirkland intervened. "Besides, it says 'applied therapy', so there's no telling what could happen in there. But it is a good idea, don't worry. Make an online appointment, the two of us will go," he said, watching Francis with an amused smile.

**A/N – Well, I hope you enjoyed today's screwed-up chap and let me know what you think because… yeah, I love hearing from you guys, your words are my drug (that's to put reviews addiction poetically) ;) **


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER 5**

A/N – Hello everyone! So, it's (high) time for a new chapter, I apologize for the delay due to hectic work and me starting a thousand things and then struggling to keep them going. Again, I will have to refer to the lengthy disclaimer I put at the beginning of the previous chapter, because this time there will be substantially more references to DD – and again, please bear in mind everything is for plot purposes, this is not meant to express any of my personal opinions or to pass any sort of judgment on the matter.

* * *

><p>"What?"<p>

Francis still chewed on his lip and on the answer he was to give, fidgeting under the other detective's gaze as he stared right ahead, at the road. Obviously, he wasn't _afraid_ of what was coming, but to say he wasn't looking forward to their appointment with Dr. Zwingli was an understatement.

"I don't know, Arthur, are you sure you want to go through with this? I mean, do you think you can do it?"

Kirkland snorted. "Don't worry, I was raised in a very strict family so technically I had to be a bloody submissive for the first eighteen years of my life. And I faked it pretty well too for most of the time, without any major slip-ups, so I believe that I should be able to pull it off this time too."

The blue-eyed blond's eyebrow shot up in surprise, he'd hardly expected the mysterious Arthur to drop that kind of information about his family, not to him and certainly not so soon after the two of them had met. If anything, it made him even more nervous. Francis had enjoyed quite a lot of freedom growing up, but later on in his job he'd had the opportunity to make some observations as to what a repressed childhood could do to individuals. But was that the source of the Englishman's oddities? He wondered… The thought brought up some concern as well – wasn't the whole thing affecting Arthur on some deep, personal and carefully concealed level?

He turned and looked briefly at the smaller blond on the passenger seat, noticing a printout of the doctor's blog in his lap. The logo was a drawn tree with leaves in the shape of tiny pink hearts, put together to form a big one – and for some reason he found the detail irking, like a mockery, especially when associated with Mr. Briggs and his late wife.

"Remember Bonnefoy," Kirkland said unexpectedly. "Whatever we hear in there, we need to look genuinely interested, not give the man a 'what-the-fuck' face, show disagreement or even surprise at whatever bullshit he may debit. Domestic discipline is not something we are there to research, but a concept we're both supposedly familiar with and have previously fully agreed upon, and now we only want some further good advice on how to make it work best in our future marriage. You must act like it's something you _believe _in. Do you understand?"

"_Oui_…"

Of course he understood that not blowing their 'cover' would take some good pretending skills on their behalf, but suddenly the way Arthur had said those words – 'our future marriage' – was all he could think about as they parked the car, went up the stairs to the therapist's office and took a seat in the waiting room. Francis's mind kept wandering to the hypothetical image of him and the Englishman being married, especially the_ sharing-the-bed _part, while mentally pushing aside the thought of having to do most of the talking (and improvising) during the upcoming appointment.

Eventually, they were invited in and the Frenchman took a deep breath as he sat down in one of the two chairs placed in front of the doctor's desk, glancing over at the other detective. He appeared awfully innocent all the sudden, in tweed trousers and a simple sweater vest over the white shirt, a surprisingly meek look in his light green eyes. Quite believable…

"So, "Dr. Zwingli said, after a few formal words of introduction. "I understand that you are here because you've chosen to commit to this lifestyle in your future together. Well, in order to be able to give you the best advice, I will have to ask you to elaborate a bit on your particular needs."

Francis cleared his throat as the therapist eyed him expectantly. There was something about the man's almost military posture he found rather intimidating and it put a very unpleasant kind of pressure.

"Well, I must confess that I stumbled upon the concept by chance a while ago and… after discussing it together we found it to be the right thing for us," he said, half-turning and offering Arthur a loving smile which was quickly reciprocated. "_C'est a dire que…_ even though we've been together for more than five years now, we are ever striving for self-improvement in our relationship." Five years? _Dieu_, where had that come from? Considering his flings usually lasted one month tops…

Dr. Zwingli clasped his hands together, appearing pleased with what he was hearing."That's wonderful! So, Francis, what exactly would you like to improve? More specifically?" As the detective didn't answer right away, the doctor offered some help. "I believe it's something in Arthur's behavior you would like to adjust?"

The blue-eyed blond gulped, knowing he would have to come up with something. Preferably something for which the Englishman wouldn't resent him too much later, for he had the suspicion that Kirkland if provoked could hold one hell of a grudge.

"Well, there are several things…"

"Arthur, maybe you would like to point out some of those things yourself?" Zwingli intervened. "As you know, admission of one's faults is the first step towards correction. Of course, Francis is here to actively support you through everything, but it must begin with you," he said gently, as if he were talking to a small child.

The other detective bit his bottom lip, glancing towards his 'dominant partner' in an approval-seeking manner. "Um… I stay out late after work sometimes, even though I know Francis worries so much about me. And sometimes I get drunk and I… um… say disrespectful things to him. And I am reluctant to take cooking classes, even if I'm absolutely awful in the kitchen."

The doctor sighed. "Well, I think we can all agree that perhaps cooking classes aren't for everyone, but the other two issues sound quite serious to me and I firmly believe you should address them without delay," he stated, turning to the Frenchman once more.

"_Ah oui_… " Francis fumbled with the papers which the smaller blond had unceremoniously shoved in his lap earlier. They had to get past the lecturing and into more serious stuff which could have helped with the investigation, he reminded himself. Eventually, he came across the page he was looking for and cleared his throat. "Actually, I read a lot about the punishments part. Here is a list of the most common: corner time, bedroom time, line writing, privilege removal, essay writing and, well, spanking. Which one would you recommend?"

"Well, I suggest you work out a system based on the set of rules I suppose you've already established – the ones you as Head of Household want your Taken in Hand, namely Arthur, to follow. The first step is to essentially create a scale of punishments, based on their seriousness, effectiveness and intensity, and apply them according to occurring transgressions."

"Privilege removal?" the smaller blond piped up shyly, his gaze trailing from the doctor to Francis and back.

"Indeed," Zwingli said, in the same irritatingly parenting tone. "For example, some privileges of the Taken in Hand which can be removed include - but are not necessarily limited to - credit card privileges, driving, going out with friends, computer, television, phone or cosmetic privileges. My clients found that they can be quite effective."

The Frenchman sighed at that, shaking his head a bit. "Ah, well surely for mild transgressions, you mean. But for more serious ones shouldn't spanking be more advisable?"

The therapist rubbed his chin thoughtfully, observing Arthur so intently that the detective began to fidget nervously in his seat. "Quite so, Francis, as long as you do it the right way. Upon delivering a spanking, you must be perfectly calm and keep in mind the real purpose of your whole domestic discipline commitment, which is to help Arthur progress on the path towards righteousness and peace."

"Ah,_ bien sû__r_…"

"So then, what implements have you thought of using to begin with?"

The blue-eyed blond blinked, as if pondering, while he tried to remember the stuff officer Carriedo had found in Mr. Briggs's box. A bath brush was mentioned in the report and he'd found it rather ridiculous at the moment, but in the same time it sounded like 'connoisseur stuff'. However, it wasn't until he brought it up and the doctor actually produced said item from one of his desk drawers that he fully realised that it was indeed meant to be used.

"I think it would be useful for you to give it a try, in this way I can effectively guide you through the process," Zwingli said. "Arthur, I will ask you to stand up and bend over the backrest," he added calmly, while motioning for the Frenchman to get to the task.

Francis knew that there was no way he could refuse to comply, yet he found himself glued to the chair, completely mortified as he eyed the long wooden bath brush – his grandmother had used to have one and once, as a child, he'd dropped the damned thing on his foot by accident. It had hurt like absolute Hell, enough to make the boy let out a foul word he'd been duly slapped for by said grandmother.

"It's very simple, Francis. Like a sort of golf," the Englishman said, making the doctor tut disapprovingly.

"You see, Francis? Your hesitation is only encouraging the bad and disrespectful behavior of your Taken in Hand. But you cannot let silly scruples get in the way, not when you _know_ that this is for his own good."

And right after saying that, without any warning, Dr. Zwingli delivered a few hard and precisely aimed swats to the other detective's backside. Arthur gasped, in shock and probably pain too, gripping the plush seat, but managed to hold still, perfectly obedient.

"Right. As I was saying, it's very important that the punishment be delivered in a supportive, loving manner, so after the actual spanking you are supposed to gently comfort your Taken in Hand, but without soothing the physical pain. So no bottom rubbing."

Before he had the time to process what was going on, the green-eyed blond was sitting across his lap, nose buried in the crook of his neck as he sniffed a bit, and Francis could do nothing but wrap his arms around his lithe frame, gently rubbing his back and even pressing a few soft kisses into his hair. He almost wondered if he wasn't by any chance overzealous, but he really didn't mind holding Kirkland like that, or touching him in that manner. Fuck his luck that the circumstances had to be so messed up… Zwingli went on to explain several other things which were to note, but the Frenchman could no longer follow, busy as he was running his fingers through the soft, short hairs on the back of Arthur's neck and discreetly inhaling his cologne.

"And remember, Francis, a Head of Household needs to always think about the bigger picture and the greater good when determining what course of action to take. The correct or best decision isn't always the easy one and is not always the one that will make everyone - especially the submissive partner - the most happy. That isn't what being a true Head of Household is about, and the ones that are best at putting their foot down are the ones that experience the most success in the lifestyle. So be sure to keep that in mind!"

* * *

><p>"Well, now we have certainly got a glimpse into the sort of 'happy, loving marriage' Mr. and Mrs. Briggs were having," Kirkland said dryly, as Francis was trying to light up a cigarette with trembling fingers. He managed eventually and took a long, calming drag while shuffling his feet on the concrete. Somehow this had been the most disturbing doctor's appointment he'd ever had and the man hadn't even touched him. Speaking of which…<p>

"Arthur… I should have asked right away but… are you alright?"

The Englishman rolled his eyes. "Believe it or not, Bonnefoy, I've taken worse beatings than this since I've joined the police force. But it was wrong of you to refuse to hit me, that bastard almost got suspicious…" He snorted. "Jones wouldn't have hesitated."

The blue-eyed blond was struck in a nearly painful manner by that statement – it was as if the other detective expected everyone to treat him badly, for some reason. Was that the Chief Inspector's fault? Was that why he was being unpleasant with most people he had to deal with? His thoughts flew back to holding the smaller blond in his arms, soothing him with gentle touches. It had felt so… special. So much so that he genuinely hoped that Arthur hadn't actually caught up with what was going on in his head.

"But still, the stuff we found does not prove that Mr. Briggs is guilty of his wife's death," he said, shaking off distracting thoughts as he got behind the wheel once more and started the engine. "I don't see how the use of a bath brush, however disturbing, could kill someone…"

"Pfft… while I was sitting there listening to his rubbish I could think of at least three ways in which I could kill him with it," Arthur muttered under his breath. "Do you know what really irks me about the whole thing? Consent. This is supposed to be a _consented_ lifestyle, even if we are to ignore that dubious 'non-consensual consent' bollocks."

"And?"

"And in order to be genuine, consent needs a key element, which is _choice_. The choice to say 'yes' when you would be able to say 'no'," the Englishman grumbled. "But think of Mrs. Briggs – a young housewife with very little education, no job or any work experience and no close family. I am inclined to believe that her choice in the matter was rather questionable. Not to mention, I read online that many of the submissive partners in this type of relationships are financially dependent on their spouses. That is by default rather choice-limiting, wouldn't you say? Then again, I suppose some might consider that taking a spanking every now and then from the one who pays the bills cannot be that bad, but the doctor said that every couple is different, that there are _nuances_… That is to say, some nuances can be particularly fucked up! "

The Frenchman nodded. "_Bien sû__r_… we will have to look deeper into the matter…"

* * *

><p>Francis really needed a break. They were heading home and he was looking forward to lounging on the couch in front of the TV with a glass of the red wine he'd recently procured, allowing himself to relax for a bit and to distance himself from the case. Of course, there was a valid point in what Kirkland was saying, but he couldn't shake off an odd feeling that his partner was taking it personally somehow.<p>

His plans for a quiet, lazy evening went to shit though, because soon after they arrived at the brownstone the Englishman changed his work clothes to something more casual (more casually hideous, to be precise) and left, again without offering the slightest explanation, and Francis found himself oddly compelled to follow him.

Obviously, stalking the man and basically intruding his privacy was wrong in more ways than one, he was aware of it, and yet there was simply too much mystery around Arthur waiting to be cracked, so many things the detective thought he should figure about his new partner. Or maybe it was simply the suspicion that it had something to do with the 'stimulant' that the other was supposedly using to aid his investigations – after all both Braginski and Chief Inspector Jones had discreetly asked him to keep an eye on Arthur, so there had to be a good reason. Mentally clinging to that particular 'good reason', Francis quickly followed the Englishman some two streets away – he was in luck that his object of interest hadn't taken a cab or something – to a rather inconspicuous looking building with a café at the ground floor.

Kirkland went in and hurriedly crossed the space crammed with small tables to the back of the main room, where he slipped behind a beads curtain. The blue-eyed blond waited a bit before retracing the other's path exactly, making his way into a dark, narrow corridor with yet more curtains – these made of heavy dark velvet - on each side. He stepped in just in time to see his new partner disappear behind one of them, towards the far end of the hallway, and sneaked after him keeping his steps as light as he could.

Francis barely dared to breathe as he moved closer, hearing hushed voices on the other side of the dark fabric. His fingers crept towards the edge with a will of their own, the detective so caught in what he was about to do that he failed entirely to realise that someone had stopped right behind him until a bony hand gripped his arm.

"If you want to watch, you have to pay," a voice croaked, startling the Frenchman who turned abruptly, faced with the sight of an old woman dressed in black. Without much thought, he fumbled in his pockets and proceeded to place a bill into her outstretched hand, breathing in relief as she walked away without another word.

He stepped even closer, nose nearly pressed into the dark plush, while his index finger rose and made the tiniest gap, enough to allow him to see what was going on inside. And then, his breath nearly stopped.

**A/N – I am truly evil, I know…**


End file.
